


Survival of the Fittest

by enigmaticblue



Series: A Sentinel in need of a Guide [1]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-10
Updated: 2012-05-10
Packaged: 2017-11-05 02:37:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/401522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigmaticblue/pseuds/enigmaticblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sentinel needs a guide to have any kind of quality of life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Survival of the Fittest

**Author's Note:**

> Written for sentinel_thurs challenge #435, “biological imperative”.

Jim stared out the balcony doors, holding the slip of paper in his hand, realizing that it was fear keeping him here. He didn’t want to be stared at, and he feared that people would know he was crazy just by looking at him.

 

Because what else did spending two months in the psych ward mean? One minute, Jim had been taking down the Switchman, and the next his whole world had exploded. The following two months were a blurred, fractured mess, and his next clear memory was of waking up in the psych ward, his hands secured to the bed, and a kind-faced doctor asking him how he felt.

 

Objectively, Jim knew that the weird senses and the pain from his injuries had driven him crazy; his tolerance for pain just wasn’t what it had been. His burns and the back injury had sent him over the edge into madness.

 

But the senses hadn’t settled down in the months since he’d left the hospital, and he had been forced to admit that he might need help.

 

Right now, he had this name on a piece of paper, slipped into his hand by a sympathetic nurse. She’d seemed to think that this Sandburg knew something about his problem. Jim had no idea what Sandburg could do when the doctors didn’t have a clue how to help him.

 

Jim rubbed his eyes, half-hoping that the elevator wasn’t working again. If it was out of order, he’d have an excuse not to go out.

 

Although, granted, his phone still worked. Jim could always call, but he wanted to see Sandburg face to face. He wanted a chance to get the measure of the man.

 

Slowly, resolutely, Jim pulled his gloves out of the pouch hanging off the arm of his wheelchair, and tightened the Velcro straps around his wrists.

 

He ran his fingers over the roughened palms, and—went somewhere else, caught up in the texture.

 

And when he came out of it, the sun had begun its descent, and it was too late to catch Sandburg on campus.

 

“Shit,” Jim muttered. “ _Shit_.”

 

The burns still pulled, the cicatrix fresh, but he’d done a lot of healing with his wrists strapped down. But the rest of it—if he didn’t keep up with his rehab, if he lost another month or two to a psych ward, he might never get out of this chair.

 

He might never walk again anyway, but if he didn’t work at it, he’d be well and truly fucked.

 

And if he kept losing time, graying out, he’d wind up in a locked ward again, and this time there might not be a doctor like Steadman who recognized what the meds were doing to him, and who worked to get him out.

 

Next time, Jim might lose himself completely, and never surface again.

 

Jim groaned. He had to figure this thing out, and he needed help to do it, and while he hated to admit it, this obscure name scribbled on a scrap of paper was the best lead he had.

 

Tomorrow, he promised himself. He’d go see this Sandburg guy tomorrow.

 

~~~~~

 

The door to Room 102 opened, and Blair glanced up from the notes he was reviewing for his next class. The first thing he noticed was the wheelchair, and he felt a moment of surprise, because he didn’t have any disabled students this semester. Once he got past the chair, however, he was even more curious—the guy was not the typical Rainier student, since he was in his mid- to late-thirties, with short brown hair and a receding hairline. His broad shoulders and muscular arms filled out his blue t-shirt, the color picking up the bright blue of his eyes.

 

Blair would have recognized him if he’d seen the man before, so he asked, “Can I help you with something?”

 

“I’m looking for Blair Sandburg,” the man replied. “I was told he’d be here.”

 

“That’s me,” Blair replied, coming out from behind the podium, holding out a hand.

 

The man’s black leather glove was dry and a little rough against Blair’s palm. “Jim Ellison.”

 

“Nice to meet you,” Blair replied, looking over Ellison’s shoulder as the door opened to admit the first group of students. “Look, I’ve got a class starting in a couple of minutes, but I’m free after that.”

 

Ellison released Blair’s hand, his expression uncertain, and a little anxious. “Oh, uh, yeah. Sure.”

 

Blair belatedly remembered some of the complaints he’d overheard from disabled students in the past—that the ramp to Hargrove Hall was too steep, that the doors were impossible to open without assistance and the automatic openers only worked half the time, that the doorways were just a little too narrow.

 

“Or you could stay,” Blair suggested. “I can’t promise you won’t be bored to death, but as long as you don’t snore, I don’t care if you sleep through it.”

 

A smile cracked Ellison’s grim expression. “I think I can promise that much, Chief. Thanks.”

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Blair said easily. “Just find a comfortable spot.”

 

Ellison wheeled himself over to one side of the room, backing up against the far wall, well out of the way.

 

Blair couldn’t help but glance over at Ellison occasionally as the seats filled up. The man seemed to have settled in for the long haul, and Blair hoped he wouldn’t be too bored even as he wondered what Ellison wanted.

 

As soon as the clock read 1 pm, Blair said, “All right, everyone. Let’s get started. Who did the reading?”

 

There was some nervous tittering, and Blair grinned. “Donna? Can you remind us what the chapter was about?”

 

Donna blushed, but answered on cue, “Biological imperatives.”

 

“And other than Donna, does anyone know what that means?”

 

There was still more shifting around, and Todd raised his hand.

 

Blair pointed at him. “Care to share with the rest of the class?”

 

“The needs of a biological organism to perpetuate its existence,” Todd replied, giving the textbook answer.

 

“And now I know a second person did the reading,” Blair joked. “Other than Donna and Todd, does anyone want to name one of those biological imperatives?” When there was a long silence, he said, “Don’t everybody speak at once.”

 

A glance at Ellison told Blair that he was amused, which was definitely better than bored.

 

“Sex!” a voice from the back of the room called.

 

There were snickers, but Blair ignored them. “Reproduction is one of them, yes. What else?”

 

“Defending territory,” Ryan said.

 

“Territorialism is a big one,” Blair agreed. “Next?”

 

“Survival,” Donna called. “Including seeking an improvement in the quality of life.”

 

“Good,” Blair said. “Anyone else?”

 

“Competition!”

 

“Forming groups!”

 

Blair couldn’t tell who said what, but he nodded. “And now I know that most of you did your homework. Thank you. Let’s talk about what that looked like in the ancient world, and what it looks like today.”

 

Teaching gave Blair a buzz that nothing else did, especially when he could get a discussion going where nearly everyone was participating. He glanced at Ellison occasionally, and the man appeared to be paying attention; he even seemed interested, which just made Blair more curious.

 

As the discussion wound down, Blair said, “Okay, I want you to read the next two chapters over the weekend.” The collective groan had Blair rolling his eyes. “And the next time we get together we’ll talk about the social construction of sexual mores, and whether those mores are adaptive or maladaptive.”

 

There was laughter from the entire class, and then they started to file out. A couple of students—notably Todd and Donna—had questions about the upcoming paper that was due in a month. The rest of the class probably wouldn’t contact him until two days before it was due—if they contacted him at all—but that was par for the course. Blair was surprised to have two overachievers in the class this semester. A lot of people thought of Anthro 101 as an easy humanities A and acted accordingly.

 

When everyone had gone, Blair turned back to Ellison. “Sorry about that, man.”

 

“No problem. I don’t want to take you away from your job.” His mouth twisted into a bitter smile. “I’m the one who has all the time in the world.”

 

Blair wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that, so he just nodded. “I’d invite you down to my office, but it’s so cluttered…” He trailed off. “This room should be clear for another hour or so, or we could find a spot outside.” He looked out of the windows. “Looks like it’s a nice day.”

 

“Yeah, that would be okay,” Ellison replied.

 

Blair let Ellison lead the way out of the building, since his usual route meant stairs. Ellison did allow Blair to open the doors for him, though, and wheeled his way down the walkway to a nearby bench.

 

When Ellison parked his wheelchair, Blair took the invitation to sit down. “So, what can I do for you?” Blair asked.

 

“I got your name from a nurse at the hospital,” Ellison said. “She said you were an expert on this kind of thing.”

 

Blair frowned, trying to remember which ex-girlfriend worked at the hospital, and drew a blank. “What kind of thing?” he asked.

 

“She said you were an expert on heightened senses,” Ellison replied, flushing deeply.

 

Blair stared at him. “Oh. Oh, man! Seriously?”

 

“I was on a stakeout when it started,” Ellison explained slowly, not meeting Blair’s eyes. “I didn’t know what was going on. I thought I’d been drugged.”

 

Blair was still trying to figure out what this all meant. “I could see why you might,” he managed. “All five senses?”

 

“From what I’ve been able to determine,” Ellison admitted. “To be honest, I’ve had your name for a while. I just haven’t done anything about it.”

 

Blair frowned. “You want to tell me what happened?”

 

“Not really,” Ellison replied, “but I probably should.”

 

Blair stayed quiet, waiting for Ellison to speak.

 

“You heard about the Switchman case?” Ellison finally asked.

 

Blair nodded. “Sure.” His eyes widened. “You’re _that_ Jim Ellison! You were—oh.”

 

The news reports all came rushing back. Blair had read them because he’d been mildly fascinated by all the coverage. Hero cop and Special Forces officer, who had been targeted by a mad bomber, and had saved a bus full of people but had been injured in the process.

 

But that had been the extent of the news. Blair hadn’t heard how badly Ellison had been injured.

 

“How bad?” Blair asked before he could think better of the question.

 

“It was an incomplete injury of the L4 and L5, with some shrapnel and burns thrown in for good measure,” Ellison replied. “The doctors say I might get use of my legs back, since I’ve got some feeling, but they can’t make any promises. The burns made everything a little more difficult.”

 

Blair tried to do some quick math to figure out how long it had been between Ellison’s injury and making contact with Blair.

 

As though sensing Blair’s thoughts, Ellison said, “I spent two months in a psych ward before one of the doctors there realized that the meds were doing more harm than good.”

 

“Shit, man, I’m sorry,” Blair said sincerely.

 

Ellison shrugged. “Not your fault. The point is, my senses are still out of control, and I really can’t afford to gray out or spike. I can’t afford to be in the psych ward again.” He frowned. “I don’t even know why I’m here.”

 

“Weren’t you listening today?” Blair countered. “Survival is a biological imperative, as is improving your quality of life.”

 

Ellison sighed. “Yeah, I guess. It’s just—I don’t see how you can help me, Mr. Sandburg.”

 

“It’s just Blair,” he insisted, hearing the desperation in Ellison’s voice. “And I was going to do my dissertation on sentinels—people with five enhanced senses—but I had to change my focus. I could find a lot of examples of people with one or two senses enhanced, but no one with all five. I’m the closest thing to an expert you’re going to find.”

 

Ellison glanced at him. “What are you doing your dissertation on now?”

 

“Closed societies,” Blair replied. “Who’s in, who’s out, and how that’s decided. I had one ride-along with the EMTs, and next month I’m riding with the fire department. I need to set up something with the police department, but I’ve been hitting some dead ends.”

 

“I might be able to help you with that,” Ellison admitted. “If you’ll give me a hand with my senses.”

 

“Man, I’d do that anyway,” Blair said quickly. “If you need help, I’ll give it to you, no strings attached.”

 

Ellison’s smile made him look years younger. “Thanks.”

 

“Don’t thank me,” Blair replied. “Just tell me what I can do.”

 

“I don’t know,” Ellison admitted. “I just—I want things to be okay, you know? I don’t want to end up back in the psych ward again.”

 

Blair nodded. “Okay. I think you should tell me exactly what’s been going on.”

 

~~~~~

 

Jim wasn’t used to talking these days. Simon came by once a week, and he had his physical therapy sessions and his mandatory counseling sessions—but Jim still didn’t say much, no matter how much the shrink wanted him to spill.

 

Oddly, it was easier to talk to Sandburg than it was to talk to the shrink, to describe his symptoms one by one—sounds that were too loud and conversations he never should have overheard, seeing things that no one else could see from an impossible distance. Taste was wrong, and he couldn’t handle any kind of spice, and he could sense the minutest traces of flavoring. He had strange rashes and his skin felt too tight. Smells were often overwhelming and made him gag.

 

And then there were the times when he just spaced out, and lost minutes or hours.

 

Sandburg’s probing questions and sympathetic expression had Jim speaking more than he had in months, even though Sandburg wasn’t anything like he’d expected. Jim had expected a stuffy academic, and he’d gotten this short guy with long, curly hair, who bounced around the classroom like he was high on something. And yet, Jim had liked listening to him; he’d liked Sandburg’s voice and his energy, and the way Sandburg looked at him—sympathetic, but not pitying, and Jim knew how to tell the difference by now.

 

And maybe it was because Sandburg seemed to believe him, and seemed to know what Jim was going through. Maybe it was because Sandburg had promised to help, but Jim found himself telling Sandburg more than he’d ever told his shrink.

 

Then again, Sandburg couldn’t lock him up for being a danger to himself the way his shrink could.

 

The sun had begun its descent when Jim finished his tale, and Sandburg glanced at his watch.

 

“I’m sorry, I’ve taken up too much of your time,” Jim apologized.

 

Sandburg frowned. “Don’t be ridiculous. This has been great, and I really think I can help you. It’s going to take some time, but you _can_ get control.”

 

Jim believed him, even though he didn’t want to get his hopes up. He was just grateful that he could pay Sandburg back by making a quick call to Simon and getting him an observer’s pass.

 

If he could help Sandburg get his dissertation done, Jim could pay him back, and he wouldn’t feel so indebted.

 

He wouldn’t feel so helpless.

 

“Yeah, well, I’ll call my old boss in Major Crimes,” he offered. “See if I can swing an observer’s pass.”

 

Sandburg beamed at him. “Man, that would be awesome! But you don’t have to do that. I’ll help for free.”

 

Jim didn’t tell Sandburg that he couldn’t take his help without at least trying to compensate him. “I appreciate that. I shouldn’t keep you any longer.”

 

Sandburg gave him a sharp look. “I was going to suggest we get something to eat. You’ve got to be hungry.”

 

Jim _was_ hungry, which was a pleasure, considering how long it had been since he’d had an appetite. “Yeah, but I don’t want to take up any more of your time.”

 

“There’s a great little deli just off campus,” Sandburg replied, as though he hadn’t heard Jim’s protest. “Best sandwiches in Cascade, I guarantee you.”

 

“And if you’re wrong?” Jim countered with a smile, feeling a little lighter.

 

Sandburg grinned at him. “I’ll pay for dinner.”

 

Jim raised his eyebrows. “How do you know I won’t lie?”

 

“Call it a gut instinct,” Sandburg suggested. “Do you want to drive, or should I?”

 

“How far is this place?” Jim asked.

 

“Three blocks, tops,” Sandburg assured him.

 

Jim glanced up at the clear sky, beginning to turn orange and pink from the setting sun, and he smiled. “It’s a nice evening. You walk, and I’ll keep up.”

 

And for the first time in a long time, Jim thought he might be able to do a little better than just merely survive.


End file.
